Bleach
I live in a dirty town,
gray as the ethereal hair of the widows
who live in the burned out peaks of Johnson City.
I wipe grime from a thin window,
which clouds like a snow globe,
left to dust and mothballs in a shoe box
filled with pictures of old vacations, sun burned
and smiling in the Keys.
I live in a town
where far more water bursts from pipes
than inspiration from empty factories,
and baby boomers cause more
fender benders than teenagers.
Blenders and microwaves rattle
the jaundice yellow of peeling paint,
not replaced since the sun set on JFK,
that top down day in Texas.
I live in a town
where ambitious work begins at midnight,
prying through garbage for beer bottles,
seeking redemption one nickel at a time.
Where shoulders brush overweight whores,
who prowl bare assed down Mather Street,
looking for a trick with a light.
I live in a town,
that is lifetime holder of the title,
“Carousel Capital of the USA,”
because even going in circles is movement.
Parents and siblings spin between three jobs,
to cling to the milky meniscus of the poverty line.
They pour into the cracks of state budgets
and a Welfare to Work program,
under the quiet snow.